


Mono no aware

by heartche



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gang World, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Gun Violence, Hacking, M/M, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2019-11-18 05:31:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18114275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartche/pseuds/heartche
Summary: “There’s a rat in our rows.”Neo Culture; one of the most notorious gangs situated in and slowly taking over every inch of Seoul, is running risk of coming apart at the very seams when the challenge of locating a rat in their own rows comes into play.With time rapidly running low and the effort of keeping any ensuing damage at bay, they find themselves in a state of constant caution.Some might cave in to the pressure. Some will come out on top.“It could be anyone. Everyone’s a suspect.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> [russian translation available here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8584770)
> 
>  
> 
> Mono no aware (物の哀れ); literally "the pathos of things"
> 
> (n.) a melancholic appreciation of the transient nature of existence. 
> 
>  
> 
>  -
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [PLEASE REFER TO THE TRAILER/GUIDE TO THIS FIC HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B6frFkYEZ6k&feature=youtu.be)
> 
>  
> 
> (some things might not make sense if you don't but it's not like super necessary so you do you)
> 
> please read this before processing:
> 
> 1\. ok so yes I did it. So many people seem to be dying for a OT21 Mafia AU so I was like should I???? Hm. Do I have time???? No. But will I anyway??? Yes. The answer is yes.
> 
> 2\. everything about this is gay. And, as a gay person myself, I probably won't add any straight characters/sex scenes/romances or anything. Just a heads up!
> 
> 3\. I tagged most parings that'll (probably) be in it but I might as well change my mind on some things as the story progresses. Who knows?
> 
> I really hope you enjoy!

 

Mono no aware (物の哀れ); literally "the pathos of things"

(n.) a melancholic appreciation of the transient nature of existence.

_

 

 

 

“You’re running late.“

“Nonsense,” Ten objects from behind, hand settling on the small of Taeyong's back, gracing the delicate silk of his dress shirt timidly, as though careful not to crinkle it, just as the door bounces open with a strident creek. “Everybody else is just early.”

It’s a bleak reminder of just how much Taeyong hates the _clubs_ with all his guts – being there that is.

The stifling hot air that hits whenever you set a foot inside and the horrid furniture he still regrets to have let Ten choose all these years ago.

It’s one of their oldest though, perhaps that’s why Johnny always suggests to hold their sit-downs there.

It’s dear to his heart in a way Taeyong never really got the gist of no matter how often Ten tries to expound.

That might be why Taeyong never tells him off for it, even when he comes home smelling of stale smoke and stretched marijuana each and every time.

The backroom is kept tastefully simple, as requested by Taeyong himself; a round table placed in the center, rich mahogany and beautiful golden details running along the edges – a heirloom dated way back and handed down by his great grandfather all these years ago – and enough to fit a maximum of twenty people though they rarely keep more than six at a time, a few old family pictures scattered on the wall, an awry plant in each corner.

Johnny insisted to obtain a fireplace. _It’ll look lavish but in a chic kinda way, Taeyong-ssi, believe me_.

So a fireplace it is.

It’s kept dim, mainly compared to the rest of the _club_ which is jammed with neon signs and lightbulbs of every primary color, one big chandelier above the table posing as the only source of light for the whole room.

Everyone is already gathered around the table – so he really _is_ late, huh? – all three of his subordinates – his capos – serenely seated a far distance from the three center seats.

The first one to take notice of their presence is Taeil, who quickly scrambles to rise from his slouched position to bow faintly, the other two, Mark and Kun, following swiftly.

They only dare to sit again once Taeyong is settled, Johnny not far off to his right whilst Ten is fetching a bottle of scotch from the cabin along with a few simple cube glasses.

It’s eerily quiet as he pours them each a glass, before he too takes a seat to Taeyong's left.

Taking a beholden sip, Taeyong lets it dissolve on his tongue before he finally speaks.

“It’s been a while since I’ve gathered you all here. I hope you are aware it doesn’t go unappreciated that you managed to shift your, what I hope to be, busy schedules on such short notice. And as you might assume, we’re not here to have a pleasant heart-to-heart in any way. There have been a few, well, _unsettling_ events that have taken place the past few days.”

Johnny chimes in swiftly, scotch glass clinking against the pair of ice cubes, as he gives it a few swirls. He’s never been one to beat around the bush much.

“There’s a rat in our rows.”

As expected they all give some variety of a gasp in turn, though decide to stay silent apart from that.

Taeyong, even as his mantra – the only thing he’s stayed true to all these years – is that scolding ones expression is the foundation to be made in the first place, had a similar reaction when Johnny confided this piece of information upon him.

The sheer idea that one of his men, that he groomed and had taken care of so thoroughly all this time, would turn against him.

Even after he so vividly painted them time after time what the other side had to offer for so called _scum_ like them.

“That’s what we’re assuming at least.” He adds, as composed as he can manage. Ten places a hand against his thigh under the table, gives it a faint squeeze, too far up, too tight. “Although the evidence is abundant if not irrefutable, at this point.”

Pinching his bottom lip between his teeth, Kun timidly questions, “How do you know?”

“ _How wouldn't we?_ Not only did said rat ruin their mouths to the feds, they simultaneously ruined our most profitable transaction yet _. Five-hundred-billion_ won down the drain in one simple night. And I’ll personally make sure that s _omeone_ has to pay for it.”

“What this means to us, as for now,” Johnny cuts in swiftly, but not without a timid sideway glance at Taeyong. “First of all, _thankfully_ , everyone got away safe, and as far as we’re concerned they’re not onto us – _yet_. Which means, we have to be especially careful, _lay low_ for a while–“

“For how long?” Taeil asks, tapping a finger up against the tabletop.

“Until we know who the rat is.” Taeyong rubs his palm over his jaw. “We’re already running all procedures we’ve got in our hands to solve this internally. The only thing we want you to do, the reason why we called you in tonight, is keep a close eye on your men. Nobody wanders off without informing a superior, nobody seals deals for their own need, no blood is shed without my knowledge. I’m looking at you Mark.”

Mark frowns deeply. “I know the kids– they're all over the place sometimes, but if they’re one thing, it’s _loyal_. Believe me. This is all they have.”

“Didn’t matter before, did it?” Taeyong deadpans. “You know what happened last time. That was a close call if I’ve ever seen one. Even if I’ve made sure to keep an eye on your bunch, I thought there was a reason I trusted you with a position like this. We cannot afford any more slipups. What I’m getting at, Mark, is you’re as switchable as everyone.”

“Taeyong-ssi, I understand, but you don’t know them. It’s not–“

“So make it clear to them that this isn't a playground they're clattering about. I’m tired of taking care of your business. You and I both know they’re the lowest of the low in rank and so easy to clip it’s–“

“ _Taeyong_ –“ Ten starts quietly, the same time Johnny butts in to say, “If they don’t know how to act, let them pay me a visit, we’ve already been through this. I think we should get back on track now.”

“Isn’t it possible that the officer you bought told on us?” Kun asks. He hasn’t touched his glass even once. “Seems most likely to me.”

“He didn’t.” Taeyong affirms.

“But how can we be–“

“Have trust in me.”

“Taeyong-ssi, with all due respect, but how can you be sure of it?” Taeil intervenes curtly. Out of all of them, he’s the one with the most guts. Beats both Taeyong and Johnny to the position of eldest in their family, a cognoscente and definitely an earner through and through. He’s indifferent and reserved most of the time, prefers to stay in lane of his own business rather than tamper with things that don’t affect him. “You accuse your own men before considering someone only bound to us for the money?”

“I have my reasons. I don’t think I’m in any position to disclose them with you.” Taeyong unclenches his jaw, a single breath escaping his lips before he goes on, “And I’d rather not be questioned for my motives. I’m the one you should trust. You _vowed_ to trust with your life, don’t forget that, hyung. My head’s on the line.”

“All our heads are on the line. Everyone who’s here tonight is gambling with death. I think you’re disregarding that.”

“Your life is more petty than you might think, Taeil-ssi.”

Taeil raises a brow, his face, the epitome of neutral as he says – _challenges_ , “But we both know it isn’t, boss. That’s the thing.”

Taeyong sets his glass down sharply, it startles all of them, more or less so.

“I think we’re done for today. Thank you all for your input. If anything goes off the rails, I know who to refer to. Please never hesitate to call me if needed and don’t forget to kick up at the end of the month. You’re dismissed for now.”

He throws a look into the round, before adding, “Taeil-ssi, excuse my impoliteness but will you stay behind for a second.”

It doesn’t take long for Kun and Mark to filter out of the room, never too keen on staying for too long.

Taeil stays put, tipping the last drop of scotch into his awaiting mouth and watching them with weary eyes.

Once the door falls closed, it leaves only Taeil and him behind – apart from Johnny and Ten, though they’ve stopped counting a long time ago.

“What’s your deal?” Taeyong asks, folding his hands on the table.

“What?” Taeil dares, the corner of his mouth twitching dangerously. “Just wanted to lighten the mood, didn’t work?”

Taeyong can’t help the amused curl of his lips. “I’m gonna kill you, you know that, right?”

“You won’t. I’d enjoy that too much.” Crossing one foot over his knee, shiny Aubercys coming into view faintly, Taeil runs a finger across the gold specked edges of the tabletop. “You still got me wondering; how do you know it’s not him? He’s basically a fed himself. What’s that all about?”

“ _Hyung_ , you gotta put a little bit of trust in me.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.” Taeil heaves himself up, palms flat on the table. With one swift motion, he evens out his noir suit jacket. “Am I dismissed now? I’ve got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow, making money for you, and all.”

Taeyong leans back into his chair. “You’re allowed to show and leave as you please.”

“How generous.” Taeil retorts with a roll of his eyes, as he makes his way to the exit.

Silence seethes in as soon as the door falls into the lock behind him.

After a moment, deeming all attempts at finding answers at the bottom of his empty glass fruitless, he decides to rise as well, shaking out his tired muscles and cracking his stiff neck.

“Get some rest.” Johnny advises, as though it's that easy. 

 

-

 

As they step out of the club, greeted with a whiff of humid mid-August air and the vigor of Seoul’s night life, Ten pulls off his jacket, picking at the high collar of his dress shirt with his index finger, before he lights himself a cigarette.

“It’s way too hot to do business,” he complains, mildly, as he slips into the backrow of the SUV, parked across the street and waiting to pick them up, thigh pressed firmly against Taeyong’s own.

Taeyong watches him roll down the window to hold his cigarette out over the pane, face illuminated by blur of streetlights and whirls of smoke.

“We should go to Spain,” he thinks aloud.

“Hm?” Ten questions with a laugh, turning to look at him. “Right now?”

“No.” Running a hand through his hair, Taeyong tries to place his thoughts. “Or maybe we should. We might as well be dead next week.”

“Geez, way to kill the mood.” Ten runs a finger over Taeyong’s thigh distractedly, as though he’s thinking. “I heard Spain’s especially pretty in fall.”

“I think it’s fine in August, just the same.”

“Taeyong–“

“Johnny would love to take over for a little, I bet. He’s a greedy motherfucker anyway.”

Ten turns away again, taking a deep drag before slowly letting the heap smoke dissolve as it touches the breezy night.

“A greedy motherfucker as in trying to fuck the whole of Seoul? If so, I agree.”

A beat of silence passes, Taeyong doesn’t have it in him to laugh, even when he, if the situation were any different, probably would.

He can’t suppress a sigh, even when he knows it’s pathetic. “I really don’t know what to do. I just– I haven’t got a single clue who it could possibly be.”

“Hey,” Ten gently cups his palms over Taeyong’s cheeks, cigarette niftily clasped between two of his fingers. Taeyong feels dizzy at the smell of smoke mixed with the zesty cologne Ten likes to wear too much, “tomorrow is another day, hm?”

“Another bitch of a day.”

Ten levels him with a look. “Are you still taking your meds?”

“I don’t need them.”

“Maybe you do."

“Lay off,” Taeyong scoffs, curling his fingers around Ten’s wrist to pull his hands off. He doesn’t let go of them, even as sparks start dropping from the tip of his fag before inevitably dying down on the floor. “You’re not responsible for me. Stop acting like it. ‘S annoying.”

The corners of Ten’s mouth curl up faintly. “Can you blame me, really?”

Taeyong loosens his grip to let him slip out. Rubbing his wrists once he’s pulled back, Ten doesn’t even bother to pretend the faint pink lines aren’t there.

Feeling guilt gnaw on him, Taeyong's glad Ten doesn’t seem to notice – or at least let on – when he skids to the side far enough for their thighs not to be touching anymore.

It feels wrong, in a way, to be touching him right now.

“Your grasp is fucking strong.” Chucking the burnt down cigarette out of the window, Ten rolls it back up, the smell of smoke still lingering on. “See, this is why I always tie your hands back.”

It throws Taeyong off for a moment. He knows he should be used to things like that but sometimes he’s still having trouble accommodating to Ten’s bluntness.

“And _this_ is why I always gag you. You can’t just say stuff like that in public.”

“We aren’t in public, technically.”

“You know where I’d allow you to say things like that?”

Ten doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “In your bed?”

“ _In Spain_.”

“Beautiful.” Ten muses with a smile. “Can’t wait for October to come.”

The car comes to an halt swiftly and before Taeyong has the chance to add anything to it, Ten’s already slipped out and opened the door on his side to help him step out.

Taeyong rolls his eyes at his ridiculousness, though takes his hand when offered.

“Come on. I’m gonna set up some tea for us.”

Taeyong rolls the idea over in his head for a second. “I think I’m feeling more of–“

“I’ve left a bottle of wine to cool, just before we left.” Ten says, letting go of his hand to go on ahead.

When Taeyong steps inside of his vestibule, loosening a few buttons of his dress shirt in the process, the sound of Ten moving about in the kitchen area is already filling the usually too quiet space.

It’s one of their numerous silent arrangements, as much as they’re a push and pull sometimes, and as much as he loves Johnny to death – Ten will always be the abiding peace of serenity he so desperately needs in times like this.

Sometimes it even feels like it could be enough to make him forget about whatever it is that the day brought along – _almost_.

In this kind of business, you can’t afford to be distracted though. Not even for a fleeting moment.

Because if you do, you end up dead.

Taeyong had to learn that the hard way.


	2. Chapter one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving back home Mark gets a little more than he bargained for. Or a lot more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back, here we go again!
> 
> First of all I really want to thank everyone who's read, given kudos to, bookmarked, commented on or subscribed to my story, it means a lot to me and I hope yall know that!
> 
> Now I gotta confess that this chapter is... well a little rushed on my part, which is really frustration because I was planing on making the chapters longer as the story goes on. But a few things got in between, very sorry, but I'm sorta forced to post this today.
> 
> Hope you enjoy either way! Longer chapters are to come!!

Something seems off as soon as Mark pushes the front door open.

It’s not so much an indication as it is a gut feeling – maybe the living room is too empty as his eyes fall upon it, maybe the sound of clutter and hushed voices too apparent in places they normally wouldn’t be.

Though mostly he just feels like he’s developed this kind of sixth sense when it comes to things like this. Things involving either the kids or trouble in general – which, same difference almost.

Still he tries to keep it at bay, slips out of his blazer and discards it at the arm of the sofa. One way or another he can still hear the others talk not far off, so they couldn’t have lived their last breath yet.

On the TV a shooter game is playing, not even bothered to be paused and once Mark decides to take a proper look he notices the can of coke on the floor, dripping liquid onto their red carpet almost as though it was hastily chucked away not so long ago.

Okay. That _is_ odd.

Unease starts to swell up in the pits of his stomach. Mark decides to gulp it down.  

When he turns around, set to look for the others, he notices Donghyuck already standing in the door frame leading down the hallway.

Despite the fact that he’s in a dark shirt, it’s hard to miss that the whole front of the material is sodden. Only when Mark’s gaze drops to his hands though, stained a deepish red, does he realize it’s blood.

It _has_ to be blood.

Mark knows what blood looks like – what it smells and feels like with both his eyes closed.

He doesn’t even take the time to think before he’s rushing over – after all, this could be a trap all the same, Johnny’s voice should be ringing in his head drilling that _sometimes you have to take the time to weight your options even if it’s a live or death situation, sometimes you have to save your own ass before anyone else’s, sometimes you have to leave a man behind even if it brings sure death upon him._

All that’s running through his mind at this moment though, is that Donghyuck is hurt.

In some way.

And badly it seems, judging by the amount of blood clinging to him.

His fingers are everywhere they can get to immediately, curled around the seam of his shirt to push it up and check his abdomen, then both of his hands, the expanse of his back, his wrist, his chest, coming up empty each time but he keeps checking every inch of skin visible, even when Donghyuck starts repeating his name over again, gently trying to push him off.

“Shit, where is it?” Mark presses, curling his hands around Donghyuck’s jaw to get him to look at him. “Donghyuck, where is it? Where is the blood coming from?”

Donghyuck looks visibly shaken. “It’s not me. It's not- I’m okay. It’s not my blood–“

Mark can’t help the relived sigh he lets out over the fact that Donghyuck is not missing any limbs or running risk of his vital organs giving up on him any moment.

It’s immediately replaced by a new wave of concern, and maybe, a tiny hint of guilt.

“Wait– who’s is it, then? Are the others-“

“It’s Jaemin. He’s–”

Letting go of Donghyuck’s face, not without leaving smudges of smeared blood behind on his cheeks, Mark stresses, “Where is he?”

He finds himself in the door frame of the bathroom before Donghyuck even managed to get the last syllable out.

The whole bunch is there, cramped in their already tiny bathroom – Jaemin sitting with his back against the edge of the bathtub on the floor.

There’s so much blood it’s hard to locate where it’s coming from.

Jeno and Renjun are by his side in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood, a heap of bloody towels already scattered all over the floor.

Jisung is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, squinting both his eyes watching them, whilst Chenle is off the side franticly rummaging through drawers.

The smell of blood is vomit inducing in this tiny box of a room.

Mark lowers himself into a crouching position in front of Jaemin, fingers curling around his ankle. “Jesus, are you–”

“It’s okay.” Jaemin insists, even with the state he seems to be in – face drained of color and arm slung over the edge of the bathtub to hold himself up. Renjun has his fingers curled around the back of his neck, the other on squeezing his palm. “’S just a cut.”

“Looks like more than that.”

Renjun takes his eyes away from Jeno’s hands, towel pressed firmly against Jaemin’s abdomen, to look at Mark. “I honestly think he might–”

“Renjun-ah, please. You’re being dramatic.” Jaemin complaints. “It’s not that bad. Just bleeding a lot.”

“It’s actually doesn’t seem too severe.” Jeno confirms, quietly and without looking up. “As long as it didn’t hit any vital organs.”

“Which it didn’t.”

“How can you be sure of it?” Renjun retorts irritatedly.

“Okay, okay, okay. Wait. Okay.” Mark mutters, pressing his palm against his forehead. “When’s Kun gonna be here?”

Jisung pipes up behind him. “Kun?”

“To stitch him up. I imagine you guys called him, since you didn’t bother calling me.”

Jisung avoids eye contact when Mark turns to look at him. His palms are trembling where they’re clamping his knees.

He look about ready to throw up.

“Jesus. Get out of here, Jisung-ah.” Mark says, with a wave of his hand. “Call him and tell him it’s an emergency. A _life or death type of emergency_. And take Donghyuck with you.”

Scrambling to get up, Jisung’s gone without another word.

With a sigh, Mark rakes his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to ground himself. He knows they’re running critically low on time if Jaemin is seriously injured.

And if it’s enough to kill him, Taeyong would definitely make sure Mark goes down with him.

Because, _duh_ , leave it to Mark’s team to die on him right after he comes back from Taeyong busting his chops to keep an eye on everyone.

“If you weren’t already about to die, I’d probably kill you myself.”

Jaemin has it in him to snort. “The meeting didn’t go too well, huh?”

“Give me a deal, I’ll tell you everything when you aren’t bleeding out anymore.”

Seemingly ready to retort something, Jaemin’s mouth snaps shut when a pill bottle lands just by his hip.

He makes to grab for it but Renjun is quick to yank it from his shaky fingers.

A moment later Chenle plops down next to Mark, crossing his legs in front of himself. “Only ones I could find, hope they’re okay.”

“For real?” Renjun asks, letting a handful of tiny, oval shaped pills drop out onto his palm. “Man, who’s taking all the pain killers for themselves? Didn’t Jisung get a whole pack just the other week?”

Mark curls his fingers around Renjun’s arm when he makes as though to give them to Jaemin. “He’s not taking those.”

With an affronted look, Jaemin complains, “Mark, I’m _dying_.”

“Well, you’ll die for sure if you take all of those.”

“No way. I’ve had worse.”

“Deal with the pain then. I don’t want anyone to do anything until Kun gets here.” Mark says. “Except keeping the flow of blood at bay.”

When Kun does finally appear – it couldn’t have been all that long after the call but still – Jaemin is barely conscious anymore.

He ushers them all out of the bathroom, make them anxiously sit atop each other, whilst waiting in the living room.

Jisung is curled against the side of the sofa, staring blankly into his phone. At the foot of it right below him, Chenle is messing with the controller of their Xbox despite facing a pitch black screen.

The way Renjun and Jeno are arguing a room away in the kitchen is audible enough for Mark to be unable to ignore it – even when it’s obvious they’re trying to keep it down – though he can’t make out any of their words, whilst he’s absent-mindedly stroking a hand through Donghyuck’s hair where his head rests atop Mark’s thighs.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Donghyuck asks, eventually, soft enough for it to almost get lost.

“Hm?”

“The meeting. Do you wanna talk it out?”

Lightly scratching his nails down the nape of his neck, Mark stalls answering for a long while. Truthfully he would rather not talk about it, preferably ever.

“It can wait.” Is what he settles on eventually.

“He came back like that.” Donghyuck says after a beat of silence passes, running his nails along the seam of Mark’s jeans along the inside of his thighs. “I don’t know where he went. I doubt he even told anyone.”

Mark lets his head drop back against the backrest. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you guys. You know I wouldn’t.”

Across from them Chenle lets out an irritated sound as he finally unfolds from the position he’s seemed to be stuck in for the past hour or so.

Settling on his knees instead, he folds his hands on the tabletop, eyebrows furrowed. “You blame us for almost everything.”

“’Cause you always make my life harder than it needs to be. Point proven just now.”

“Bullshit.” Chenle says, a little too tongue-in-cheek to be taken serious. “You couldn’t ask for a better team than us. We’re like–“

He doesn’t get to finish because Jisung suddenly startles behind him, noisily budging up to peak over the backrest of the sofa. He shushes them a few times, though it’s completely quiet anyway, all their attention now focused on where Kun has appeared in the doorstep.

Donghyuck scrambles up from where he’s been half asleep on Mark’s lap this whole time and Chenle jumps up to be able to see him from across the sofa, before Jisung pulls at his sleeve, making him settles on the spot beside him.

Kun takes a few more steps into the room, his expression indecipherable – a typical poker face. Mark can’t tell if he’s even doing it on purpose anymore or if it’s just a habitual thing.

It feels like an eternity passes before he lets them off the hook.

“He’s okay. More or less so.”

They all breathe varieties of a sigh of relief.

But despite the hand Donghyuck settles around Mark with a slight reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, and the way the weight on his chest seems to finally heave for a least the lightest bit, Mark can’t put it beside himself to ask the big _what if_ question that’s been pressing him ever since.

“Is he gonna have to deal with any permanent damages?

Kun rubs a hand through his tangled, sweaty mess of hair. “All I can say is, he got damn lucky. I don’t know how he made it but the knife skid off his ribcage _completely_. It didn’t slip between the gaps, so nowhere near any of his organs. It essentially only pierced his skin.”

“So he’s gonna be as good as new?” Jisung asks keenly.

“After enough time and rest.”

“How much time?”

The words came from Jeno, who’s been quietly listening from where he’s leaning against the wall just next to the kitchen door, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Unsurprisingly Renjun isn’t far off, standing a few steps ahead of him.

“A few weeks. Two months at top, I assume. But we’ll have to see.”

Letting himself sink back into the cushion of the sofa, Mark lets his mind run wild with deliberations of how he’s going to wind them all out of this one, as Kun starts skimming through a list of things they need to make sure of in order to keep Jaemin’s health upright; changing his bandages twice a day, how much pain killers he needs and such.

“Can we see him right now?” Jisung asks, the second he’s finished.

“You should let him sleep for a bit.” Kun suggest with a gentle smile. “Although I advise for someone to sleep in the same room as him at night should any complications come about unexpectedly.”

The room falls eerily quiet in the time it takes him to dip back into the bathroom and pick his stuff up – bar for Jeno and Renjun who’ve gone over to furtively muttering to each other on the other side of the room. When he comes back out, he lets a battered plastic bag drop onto the coffee table, clinking nosily upon making contact with the timber tabletop.

His gaze flickers over Donghyuck and Mark briefly. With a slight tilt to his head, he decides to address Jeno

“This should cover the next few weeks just fine. Give me a ring if you need refills of any sort. And Mark,” He adds. It’s sobering to say the least, though it does have a hint of condolence wrapped in the tilt of his voice. Granting that could be a result of wishful thinking on Mark’s part. Kun turns to look at him, expression serious as anything. “You’re in for something.”

It misses the mark of being subtle if the way everyone turns to look at him, the pairs of inquisitive eyes Mark feels burning into his skin, is anything to go by.

He tries to ignore them, does his best at brushing it off. “I’m capable of taking care of this myself. Thanks for everything you did but from here on it's entirely my business.”

“Aish, _Mark_.” Kun preens with a laugh. “Where was that attitude at the meeting today?”

Mark does a bad job at trying to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Fuck off.”

After a few more unsubstantial words here and there, the door finally falls into the lock behind him, ultimately leaving them to themselves again. It’s only when neither Jeno nor Renjun budge from their positions, Chenle seeming hesitant as ever as he steps back into the room after he’s trailed behind Kun earlier, that Mark start to feel a familiar unease settle in.

He rubs a hand down his neck, eyes falling upon the door leading down the hallway and back to their bedrooms. “I think I should go check up on Jaemin.”

It’s an attempt to wind himself out futile as it can get. Donghyuck curls his hands around his arm before Mark even has the chance to budge from his spot – not really holding him back but certainly not leaving the choice to bolt open either way.

“He needs rest.” He says, not unkindly, the same time Jeno urges, “What was that all about?”

“What do you mean?”

Chenle plops down on the sofa, temple against the armrest as he curls into himself. “Don’t be insulting. We aren’t oblivious.”

“Nothing is going on.” Mark says. “Jaemin almost bled out, of course I’ll report that.”

“Bullshit.” Donghyuck snarls with a snort. “That was most likely a street deal gone wrong. Top brass couldn’t care less about shit like that. Even if someone were to die, we’re basically nonexistent to them anyway.”

Mark can’t help but pull a face. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“You guys always get it all wrong.”

“Now you’re just changing the topic.” Donghyuck points out.

“I’m–“ Mark pushes at his shoulder. “You started it.”

“So – that’s the reason?” Renjun asks, stepping up behind the sofa. He crosses his arms over the backrest, resting his chin against them. “You just feel like it? Basically.”

“No. The short answer is,” Mark says, “Taeyong instructed us to report everything back to him from now on.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

Renjun raises a brow. “You didn’t ask?”

“I’m not gonna question him.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Jeno settles against the armrest of the lounge chair, crossing his legs. “Did something happen?”

“Despite what you may think, Taeyong doesn’t tell us _everything_.”

Jeno shoots him a level look. “Suddenly deciding he wants to keep tabs on us is kind of our business too, don’t you think? We’re at least ought to know what for.”

“We aren’t, though.” Mark challenges. “And why does it matter anyway? If it was just a trivial accident, nobody has anything to fear for. Or is there something I need to know?”

“I don’t like your implication.”

“Well, I don’t like your attitude.” Mark knows he’s pushing a thin line here, but he can’t seem to stop. Even when he feels Donghyuck grip his thigh a little snugger than he normally would, even when Chenle is trying his hardest to look anywhere but him. “If you got an issue with that, feel free to consult Taeyong about it yourself.”

Jeno presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Maybe I should.”

“Nobody is stopping you.“

“ _Okay_.” Donghyuck cuts in swiftly and a little louder than necessary, one hand coming up to curl around Mark’s waist. “Think we should go to bed. It’s late anyway, today was a long day. I’m tired, you’re too, yeah? Perfect.”

Mark lets himself be pulled to a standing position and dragged down to the hallway without much of a dispute. Feeling half relieved to not be put on the spot for their inquisitive questions to clash in anymore, half frustrated at how this whole situation went down altogether.

In hindsight he feels kind of stupid for it but Mark was really betting on them being more understanding.

For some reason it slipped his mind that it’s adolescents he’s dealing with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, this is going to be the last chapter for the next few weeks (two months? at top!) because I'm going out of town and won't be able to write at all. But as soon as I get back I'll also get back on with writing. I hope you all understand!!
> 
> If you want to talk, I have [twitter](https://twitter.com/plumjsung) or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/plumjsung)!


	3. Chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, okay, yay, I'm finally back!!
> 
> First of all, I have to admit that I'm not 100 % happy with this chapter. I finished it like weeks ago but I never posted it bc I wanted to edit/add something to it but I was completely stuck. As well as thinking of giving up on this fic altogether. But anyway, what happened was, today I was having major Johnten feels and I was like shit I gotta write a Johnten scene in this fic but it's not time for that yet so I'll continue this and wait it out until I can finally write it bc I'm dying to. So basically Johnten made me do it.
> 
> Anyway this chapter is kinda dull imo, not much is happening and I'm mostly introduce new characters. So please stick with me until I'm far enough to pick the main plot back up. I just didn't want to send yall into this with no knowledge of how the characters work at all.
> 
> Also, I'm using their stage names for some of the boys, like Xiaojun, Hendery, Doyoung, Jaehyun because their reals names would feel too unnatural to me and I'd probably get confused. Hope that doesn't bother you all!
> 
> Also this chapter is the gayest I wrote so far so... happy pride month yall !!!!!

Jungwoo – as opposed to the way people tend to perceive him – hasn’t been clean-handed for the majority of the short twenty years he’s had the pleasure of existing on this planet.

It’s hard to put a finger on, even for him, what exactly set the hare running, what sent him into this downward spiral of bad decision after even worse decision, before ultimately getting spit back up and crash into what appeared to be too good to be true.

And it was – way too good, that is – and then again it wasn’t.

Jungwoo has never known what the barrel of a gun felt like against his bare fingertips, what blood looked like gaping out of a fleshy wound, eyes that should blink back at him but are too empty to do so, how hard it is to get stains out of flannels, out of vans and out of the tips of your hair when a board-meeting is waiting in less than ten minutes.

The problem isn’t that Taeyong likes to pride him as the face of innocence of their team, conveys it in a manner as though it isn’t an ample diminution of his worth all the way down to his appearance even when Jungwoo knows he’s got more to himself than just that.  _There has to be more._

Perhaps the problem is that he has gotten so good at molding himself into any shape or form needed to play into the bigger picture that he doesn’t even know if that’s truly who he is anymore. If there is even a stagnant stage of being anywhere in existence. Where the line lays between change for the better and change for the worse.

Most days though he just wonders how he’s going to get by.

Ample philosophical questions aside, and atop all of that, he finds the sheer amount of time he has to  _waste_  in bars annoying on good days, and downright appalling on worse ones.

It has something to do with the way eyes always seem to catch on his too lavish choice of clothes, the watch, sitting too heavy against his wrist where it catches against even the littlest shaft of light.

Let alone the fact that he feels like smoked bacon whenever he comes home or sometimes, on bad nights, ready to throw up from all the cheap whiskey he had to pretend to like.

It’s part of his ploy, of course. And still he can’t seem to get used to it, no matter how much of a routine it has become.

With Yukhei keeping him company however he deems it not quite as bad.

At least it’s hard to and he really  _does_  try.

It’s business after all – even with Yukhei being all dopey smiles and hushed mutters, one endearing story after another on the tip of his tongue, and dressed as though he’s trying to snatch Jungwoo’s job right from under his very nose.

Alertness still sits deep though, plays just as much of a part in his inability to comprehend words, if not more so, than the popped buttons of Yukhei’s dress shirt do, gaze continuously drifting past his shoulder to watch each and every traffic, any shift in quantity of people that might arise at the entrance –  _waiting, waiting, waiting._

His gaze flickers back to Yukhei’s face when he places one of his distractingly large palms on Jungwoo’s thigh, noticing the slight curl in his brows, an awaiting expression.

“You hang around these guys too much.“ Jungwoo decides.

Yukhei shoulders twitch faintly. “Ought to get bored of you eventually.”

“I see how it is.” Jungwoo deadpans, folding his hands atop the table to rest his chin on the back of his palms. He can’t help the faint twitch pulling at the corners of his mouth, giving him away. “That’s what they inculcated in you over in Shanghai?”

With a swift swirl of his wrist, ice cubes crashing against each other in their confinement, Yukhei brings his glass – brimful of appallingly expensive whiskey he couldn’t refrain from ordering – to his lips. A futile attempt to hide his smirk.

Not really up for games, Jungwoo gives in easily, voice coming out a tad too whiny for his own liking when he says, “Still can’t believe you guys went on a bonding trip to China.”

“It was  _business_.”

“ _As if_  – Renjun told me all about it.” Prying the glass from Yukhei’s fingers, Jungwoo takes a sip from it. He tries his best at scolding his expression when the bitter liquid touches his tongue and fails miserably if the face Yukhei gives him is anything to go by. “You guys went for drinks and everything.”

Yukhei’s gaze tips down to where his fingers are wrapped around the glass. “Want me to get you a brandy?”

Jungwoo rolls the idea over in his mind for only a moment. “I shouldn’t drink.”

Hand wandering from mid-thigh down to his knee, before withdrawing with a gentle squeeze to it, Yukhei nicks the whiskey back just to set it down on the tabletop.

He cocks his head to the side, curiously. “Reason?”

“This one’s important.”

“Isn’t everything?”

Jungwoo’s mouth drops open, retort on the tip of his tongue, when he see it.

Or  _her_  – more precisely. Long dark hair curling around narrow shoulders, bare for a skintight red mini dress, puffy cheeks not quiet attuned with the otherwise slim figure – as though cut from the picture Taeil supplied him with.

_They’ve got a match._

Granting she was easier to spot than Jungwoo had anticipated. It probably should have been a given. Jungwoo knows what she is here for.

Yukhei speaks what he wouldn’t dare to. As usual. “Blatant.”

Without much hesitation, Jungwoo places his palms on the table to push himself up. A hand comes to curl around his wrist, making him stop in his tracks, and when he looks over to Yukhei he’s got a slight quirk in his brows. His fingers move gently through Jungwoo’s freshly dyed mop of caramel blonde hair, brushing a few stray strands from his forehead where they slipped from their designed position achieved with a handful of hair wax.

“ _Now_ , you’re ready.” Yukhei concludes gently, and for a second Jungwoo sees him leaning in for a kiss. Seemingly catching himself, he withdraws completely after a moment, sagging back into the backrest of his booth, arms coming up to cross in front of his chest. “Mind if I eavesdrop?”

“You know I do.” Jungwoo hums, pulling at the sleeve of Yukhei’s dress shirt faintly, longing to touch – properly,  _skin on skin_. “But I also know I can’t keep you from it.”

With that he heaves himself into a standing position, catching Yukhei’s eye as he does so, who raises a brow at him, before he turns around.

_Another day, another round._

 

_______________________

 

“You can drop me off at the end of the street.”

Opening the door of the cab, a fifty-thousand won bill hastily thrown at the driver, Jaehyun is met with a whiff of stifling hot air. He doesn’t hesitate to fix his snapback atop his head, as he steps out onto the hectic streets of Gangnam, pulling it down just far enough as to not stumble over his own feet.

He’d stopped taking in much of his surroundings whilst visiting a long time ago. It’s too familiar anyway.

The rows of buildings, skyscrapers gracing a blanket of clouds, are, as much as the nifty architecture, gloomy urban air. Cars parked at the side of the road, sleek and shiny and more expensive than Jaehyun’s rent for the next ten years.

In his twenty-two years of living in Seoul, three years of being on duty, Jaehyun had made sure to avoid Gangnam like the plague.

There’s something he can’t quiet shake off whenever he sets a foot into Cheongdam – district of the new  _filthy_  rich – the feeling of not belonging.

Frankly he doesn’t.

It was everything if not a stroke of luck that drew him here in the first place.

A not quite fortunate evening a little over two years ago.

Back then, fresh out of the police academy and feeling as though the whole world was at his feet after having done well at his first ever  _proper_  job away from patrol, he took to celebrate at a bar not far from the station, a bit outside of Seoul, Itaewon.

In hindsight it’s kind of ironic, Jaehyun isn’t one for stereotypes but Itaewon  _is_  known for its vast number of foreigners.

And that’s exactly where he met him, all enticing smile and dark eyes, tempting in the way he speaks, in the way he dresses, in the way he  _moves_.

He goes by the name of Ten, keenly talks about how he came here all the way from Thailand, though has spent most of his life in Korea, and tells Jaehyung, all tongue-in-cheek, that he wouldn’t mind being taken home – though it came with a price.

Jaehyun felt as though he was on top of the world, the fourth glass of scotch he had been sipping on not helping his case, so he caved easily, agreed to take him back to his place.

The price, Ten had so slyly touched on, wasn’t something that could have been settled with money.

Though it took Jaehyun a while to connect the dots; all the implications, all the times Ten claimed he was busy until late into the night, all the expensive things he liked to show off and was ever so secretive to tell how he got his hands on, before it finally clicked.

Two weeks passed, they had felt closer to two years, a constant push and pull, until finally,

_“I’ve got a proposition for you, I don’t think you’ll be able to decline, baby.”_

And he was right, Jaehyun wasn’t able decline it.

Not with the way Ten was waxing poetry left and right, writing stars into the sky that Jaehyun couldn’t have ever dreamed of touching but suddenly seemed barely out of reach.

Barely nineteen and feeling as though any door in existence just unbolted solely for him.

He became reckless. And for that, he paid the price.

It was hard but ever since he’s adapted to it, accepted it even – at least for most parts – has learned to let go of all the pent up bitterness.

He could be dead just the same.

It’s a deal, simple as that.

_I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine._

After all, he didn’t become the youngest chief of police in the history of Seoul by simply working hard. That would be ridiculous.

Finger hovering above the button at the front gate before pressing it, Jaehyun is surprised to be immediately let in, heavy steel doorways parting to reveal the front porch of the property.

It’s kept rather bleak, marbled pathway leading to the entrance of the house framed by a synthetically green grass and a variety of plant life.

 _Bleak_ , in that case, compared to what Jaehyun had seen of the backyard through windows when he was inside.

The front door gets pulled open after the first ring and unsurprisingly enough, it’s Ten who comes up behind it.

Clad in dark chino pants and a loose silky dress shirt, mauve in color, tugged in lazily and unbuttoned all the way down to his chest.

His hair is dark now, back to its natural black and nothing like the blonde Jaehyun had last seen him boast back in May.

He looks as though copy and pasted from the memories Jaehyun would rather keep stored away in the very back of his mind until his last day.

When he talks, the patronizing tilt to his voice thick like honey, it scratches a scab that probably won’t ever heal.

“Officer.”

“I’m here off-duty.” Jaehyun deadpans.

Ten’s composer wouldn’t give away much of anything weren’t it for the slight jerk of his brow. “Still as vindictive as always, I see.”

Taking a step to the side, he gestures for him to come in, hand brushing up against Jaehyun’s back faintly when he does so.

He follows silently when Ten moves to lead him down the hall and into the main area.

The inside of the house – which feels like more like a mansion, really – as much as it’s impressive and as much as Jaehyun appreciates open living, holds a sterile blankness to it.

Obtaining a simple black and white color scheme doesn’t leave much leeway, and the furnishing is sparse, though he is sure it’s supposed to be in a fashionable kind of way.

If anything it serves as a reminder as to why Jaehyun despises Cheongdam as much as he likes to preach.

Only after a moment does he notice that they are accompanied, eyes catching on Taeyong, stood by the window, seemingly looking upon the garden.

When he turns around, translucent cup curled around two of his fingers, he notes Jaehyun’s presence with just a simple nod.

Oftentimes Jaehyun can’t help but ponder upon the fact that despite Taeyong’s smooth features, the gentle tone of his voice, he still manages to hold this strong sense of authority, niftily skilled at overflowing any room he sets a foot in.

Although perhaps once a man presses the muzzle of a loaded gun against your temple, it’s hard to look at him as anything but.

A long moment passes before Taeyong decides to speak up. “Jaehyun-ssi.”

“Taeyong-ssi.” Jaehyun echoes with a slight bow.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see movement as Ten stirs slightly in his spot.

It makes unease settle beneath Jaehyun’s skin, the way stepping inside this place, this confinement, always tends to.

There is always a slight part in him that fears being  _set up_ , that maybe he unwittingly slipped a cog and they called him here to set him straight for it – or even end him.

Before his fight or flight has the chance to kick in though, Taeyong makes to steps forward, and immediately Jaehyun knows he is heading for his office, door slightly ajar at the other end of the room.

Jaehyun follows hesitantly, slow strides as he tries to fall into Taeyong’s step.

Behind them Ten speaks up. “Should I–?”

“It’s not necessary.” Taeyong deadpans.

When Jaehyun slips into the office after him, door falling shut under the pressure of Taeyong’s foot, he’s met with the sight of Johnny lounging nonchalantly on the sofa at the other end of the room.

He’s dressed uncharacteristically casual, just a white shirt and dark denim jeans and typing away on his phone as though he hadn’t even noticed the additional presence.

It’s odd, especially in a room like this.

Posh as anything with all its expensive furniture, cabinets and book shelves, a working desk sitting in the far right corner, tabletop made of glass. The window expanding behind it showing off the water fountain placed in the backyard.

Taeyong speaks up behind him, breaking the idle silence.

“As you might have already assumed, we’ve got a pressing issue to discuss.”

 

_______________________

 

Pearls of sweat, in all their sticky and itchy glory, are pooling at the back of his neck and honestly, Hendery feels disgusting.

A proper hair cut has been overdue ever since his failed attempt at bleaching his hair, simultaneously frying the tips to no end.

Although he has never felt quite as envious of Xiaojun’s undercut as he does on days like this.

Running a hand up the nape of his neck to let it breath, he drop his head back against the mesh fence. The resonating rustle catches Yangyang’s attention briefly, before his eyes dart back to his phone screen without a comment.

“Are you sure he’s even in there?”

The words came from below them, where Xiaojun is sitting up against a graffiti smeared wall, chin resting on his arms where they are crossed atop his knees.

Yangyang doesn’t bother looking up to state, “There’s no other exit.”

Catching the irritated look Xiaojun throws his way, Hendery can’t help but snort, which in turn makes Xiaojun raise a brow, corners of his mouth curling up.

They couldn’t have been here for more than twenty minutes but time passes sluggishly when you’re waiting. The worn down neighborhood they’ve found themselves in doesn’t help the case.

The smell of piss has been lingering horribly in Hendery’s nose ever since they turned into this particular back alley and he cannot, for the love of god, imagine how Xiaojun can manage to sit on the oddly stained curb so casually.

He jumps to his feet immediately when the door rattles though, simultaneously Yangyang slides his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, darting forward two steps.

The door creaks open, a figure stepping out and in the span of only a few seconds Yangyang has him pinned to the wall, small knife tangling between his fingers, shiny blade of it gracing his opponent’s Adam’s apple.

“Think you owe us something.”

The guy’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. He fights only for a second, fists clenching before Yangyang increases the pressure against his skin.

Coming forward, they step up on either side of them, Xiaojun on the right side which leaves Hendery with the left, in case he manages to break free and makes the stupid decision toff taking off.  

“A lot, actually.” Xiaojun adds.

The guy is slender, wimpy almost, ashy skin sinking into his cheekbones when he pulls a grimace. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I'm sure you can figure it out.”

A beat of silence passes before realization seems to wash over the guy’s face. “That’s impossible, usually–“

“Usually people pay up front when they owe someone money.” Yangyang presses, voice calm. “Trying to sweep it under the carpet isn’t very polite now, is it?”

“I can’t– I don’t  _have_  the money. I’m broke, I don’t–”

With a slight raise of his hand, Yangyang gives them a signal.

It makes Xiaojun step forward slowly before he’s tearing the guy’s backpack from his shoulder with a swift movement of his hand.

The guy makes a sound of protest which is swiftly stifled in a way Hendery doesn’t see, too busy ripping open the zipper of the bag, before emptying it to the ground.

Digging through his belongings, they find mostly junk – a few cigars along a lighter, sunglasses, a pack of peppermints.

Xiaojun lets the cigars wander into his back pocket before picking up a small envelope, shaking a few yellow bills out onto his palm. Counting them off, he makes a satisfied noise.

“400,000.” He states, holding it up for Yangyang to see.

“Not even close to enough.” Hendery says, weighting what appears to be a  _Beretta_ , he found wrapped in a plastic bag, in his hands. “But it’s a start.”

Yangyang lets out a noncommittal hum. “Anything else?”

“Think I’ll keep this for myself.” Holding up the gun, Hendery continues, “The rest is utter trash.”

Yangyang levels the guy with a look. “Okay. Guess that will have to sufficient for now. Make sure you have the money by, hmm–“ He withdraws the knife, tapping it against the guy’s lips faintly, thinking. “Next Monday.”

“We’re talking a million. Nothing more, nothing less.” Xiaojun continues. “And we won’t go as easy on if this happens again.”

“ _A million_?” The guy echoes.  “No fucking way. You just took 400,000 – that leaves 600,000. You fucking kids can’t rip me off.”

“Oh no, that’s just a _fee_.” Yangyang says, condescendingly. “You know what a fee is, right? A rather  _small_  compensation for making us come here all the way specifically for you.”

Clenching his jaw, the guy doesn’t hold back to hiss, “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

Yangyang raises his knife to run the tip of the blade along the guy’s cheek, grazing his skin, careful not to draw blood. “Sounds fun. I’d love to die.”

They hold eye contact for a long moment, almost as though they’re fighting a silent battle of who is going to give in first.

In Hendery’s humble opinion it seems kind of unfair when one person has the blade of knife digging into their skin.

And yet it’s Yangyang who pulls back first, eyes lingering on the guy for a moment too long before he turns to face Xiaojun and Hendery.

He cracks a smile – too innocent considering the circumstances. “Anyway let’s leave.”

Without as much as a glance back, they leave the guy behind who, as soon as they turn around, drops to the floor to scramble his stuff back up.

Once they pass the corner, back on the main road where cars pass by, Xiaojun nudges his shoulder against Yangyang’s. “Can’t believe you still run around with this tiny ass knife.”

Yangyang lets out a laugh. “It does the job.”

A discussion breaks out about who is to be trusted to run around town with 400,000 cash when Xiaojun tries to slip Yangyang the bills. In the end, Hendery has to struggle to fold them neatly in order for them to fit comfortably into the front pocket of his jeans.

He pushes a hand through his hair, still sweaty and at this point, most likely disheveled. “I fucking hate this.”

“We’ll keep half of it anyway.” Yangyang says.

“No, I mean,” Pointlessly he searches for words to put it in the nicest way possible. “Why do we always have to do everyone’s–  _dirty work_.”

Xiaojun shrugs. “Kun asked us a favor.”

“A favor is bringing him something back from the store.” Hendery scoffs, although it lacks real temper. “Not driving to the other side of the city to threaten someone for gambling debts.  _Gambling_.”

“Word has it there’s some conflicts making rounds.” Yangyang mentions, halfheartedly.

“Conflicts?” Hendery echoes, the same time Xiaojun asks, “Who said that?”

Yangyang snorts. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Which essentially translates to; you know shit about shit.”

“Come on.” Xiaojun groans, pushing Yangyang’s shoulder. “What’s with you?”

“Not really something to discuss in public.” Yangyang states with a grin, falling a step ahead of them. “Is it?”

 

 

_______________________

 

A slight curl to her spine, Ten gently rubs his palm across the arch of it, thick white fur sliding through the gaps between his fingers. Needy thing she is, Yuna leans right into it, purring noisily under his fingertips as she rubs her head against the cushion.

He is busy scratching the soft spot behind her ear when she startles under him at the sound of the door thudding open on the other side of the room. Jumping up from her spot she hops of the sofa and wanders off into the direction of the kitchen, passing through Jaehyun’s feet in the process.

“She likes you.” Ten says.

Jaehyun makes a noncommittal sound. “I’m more of a dog person.”

Exaggerated gasp on his lips, Ten rises to his feet.

He darts forward, leaving only a few inches of space between them when he leans back against the backrest of one of the armchairs. Jaehyun, surprisingly enough, doesn’t budge even an inch.

Sliding a finger over the exposed skin of his collarbones, Ten catches Jaehyun’s gaze drop down to follow the movement for a second.

A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. He tries to cover it with a raised brow and a “You’re leaving already?”

“As you can see.”

“Pity.” Ten says, cocking his head to the side.

After a moment, neither of them making the semblance to add anything valuable to the conversation, he tilts forward slightly, awaiting a reaction that doesn’t come.

Quite the contrary, Jaehyun barely shows a reaction at all when Ten cups his palms over his jaw. “What did you guys talk about?”

Slight smile curling around his lips, Jaehyun twists his fingers around Ten’s wrists. “Ask your owner.”

“Ouch.” Ten says with a frown. “You know Taeyong’s always in a mood after talks like that.”

It’s only half a lie. Most days it’s almost  _too_  easy to make Taeyong loose-tongued and pleasantly talkative with a glass of fine liquor, a flattering word here or there, a reassuring touch.

These days though, he seems too wound up, too stressed, to  _reluctant_  to hold even the simplest of conversations.

It’s starting to become an issue. In more ways than just one.

Pulling Ten’s hands off him with a slight, warning squeeze to them, Jaehyun takes a step back. “Doesn’t sound like my problem.”

Ten clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You’re cute, Jaehyun-ah, thinking–“

“Don’t even bother, I didn’t come here to chat." Jaehyun deadpans. "I know my way out.”

 

_______________________

 

“Shouldn't you be in bed?”

The sound of brittle timber creaking under his bare feet echoes loud through the tranquil night.

And despite having heard him, face dimly illuminated by the glow of his cigarette, Jaemin keeps his gaze fixed on the skyline, where Seoul’s nightlife seems to be slowly buzzing to an end. The warm glow of the sun peeking through the very tip of each and every skyscraper.

It’s the first time Jeno has seen him out of his bed, even though it’s been a full week since Kun stitched him back up. He probably wouldn’t have come to known that Jaemin already has it in him to heave himself out of bed, make his way down the stairs and onto the balcony without as much as waking a soul, hadn’t he been dragged from slumber himself earlier, facing an empty bed next to his own.

Carefully he sits down next to Jaemin, where he is slumped against the wall, legs stretched out on front of him. Jeno places a hand on his knee and Jaemin lets him.

“Shouldn’t you too?” He says, quietly.

Jeno watches him bring the cigarette to his lips, eyes tipping down to his stomach where his bandages are adeptly hidden under a baggy tee, before tearing his gaze away.

He knows Jaemin hates it when he stares but sometimes he just can’t help it.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Jeno says eventually.

“Me neither.”

“Are you–“ For a second he struggles to find the right words, always balancing the thin line between expressing concern and making Jaemin feel as though he’s being coddled. “Feeling better?”

Jaemin butts out the blunt left of what once was a cigarette, flicking it over the railing, before letting his head drop back against the wall.

After a long, heavy sigh, he concludes, “I’m alive.”

“You’re awfully hard to get rid of.” Jeno jokes, reaching out to curl his arm around Jaemin’s shoulder, fingers tracing the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. “Did you… talk to Mark, yet?”

Apart from an affirming hum, he doesn’t seem too keen on expounding further.

“And?” Jeno tries, after a moment, futile attempt to coax an answer out of him.

“He asked questions, I gave answers.”

Jeno has to refrain from shoving his elbow into Jaemin’s side. Instead he reaches out to flick his temple. “Why are you so pissy these days?”

“I got fucking  _stabbed_.” Jaemin huffs, throwing his arms in the air. “What do you expect me to be?”

“Has never stopped you from being annoying before.” Jeno retorts quietly. Silence stretches on for a moment too long, suffocating, and just empty enough for Jeno to build up the nerve to broach what’s been a heavy weight on his heart for days now. Even when he knows he’s going to come up empty. “Do you wanna tell me?”

When he dares a sideway glance to look for a reaction, he catches Jaemin pressing his eyes closed for a second as though he’s in pain, before he turns his head to the side, facing Jeno.

One hand darts up to curl into the collar of Jeno’s shirt, features softening when they lock eyes, he leans in to press their lips together.

It’s as fleeting of a kiss as they come, Jaemin pulls back before Jeno’s brain has the chance to register what is going on let alone react to it, impish smile curling around Jaemin’s lips as he does so.

“Come on. Help me up.” He says, swatting Jeno’s collarbone with the back of his hand. “I need an Advil or I'm gonna die.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, please tell me if you prefer longer or shorter chapters? As well if it's okay if I put scenes that don't really belong together in one chapter or if I should split them up? I really don't know how I should do it so :/
> 
> If you want to talk, I have [twitter](https://twitter.com/plumjsung) or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/plumjsung) :-)


	4. Chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I finally got my shit together and started writing again yay. I’m sorry for the slow updates, life is kind of kicking my ass and I’m low on motivation these days :(
> 
> Despite that I really wanna thank everyone who has shown support and liked my story so far, they really motivate me to keep going :-)

Throughout the two decades they had known each other, Taeyong had witnessed Johnny in a vast variety of states.

Curled into himself on blotted concrete when he broke the very first bone of his lifetime and seemed as though he would pass out from the pain. Bent over the edge of the toilet spilling out his lungs, cheap beer and stretched weed and all the other things he’d learned to love getting the better of him – _countless_ of times.

Or a gun held to his own head when he swore to kill himself at the tender age of nineteen.

Flat against a sleek maroon massage mat, naked from the waist up, is a first.

A white towel is covering his bottom, and there’s fingers kneading his lower back.

Eyes closed and cheek squished against the elevated headrest of it, he looks uncharacteristically peaceful, hair an unkempt mess of chocolate brown and free of any sort of usual product.

Vast windows, blinds rolled up and pushed open to let humid air fill the room offer a view of the backyard and in turn a glimpse of bare skin for everyone who were to pass by.

The aroma of lemons blended with rich Indian spices lays heavy in the air, burns through Taeyong’s nose, and the soft trickle of rain hitting a window and chimes wailing through wind fills out the ample space.

It sounds like a run-of-the-mill meditation playlist pulled off YouTube to Taeyong’s ears.

The whole scenery is weird frankly but maybe not by Johnny’s standards.

Torn between not wanting to disturb the serenity and the weight of heavy concerns leaving him sleepless at night bugging him to pull Johnny back for a word, Taeyong doesn’t need to think about which is the more pressing of the two.

Stepping past the polished marble of the doorway where it curves over him, he overlooks courtesies for the sake of time.

Clearing his throat noisily to announce his presence where a simple _hey_ would’ve done just fine might not be the most tactful option but if anything Taeyong blames it on the three shots of espresso he downed on an empty stomach earlier today after laying restless the whole night setting him in a bad mood.

The masseuse – a pretty blonde, he notes, now that he can cast a proper look at her – startles visibly, but her hands never leave Johnny’s skin, not even when she bows faintly at the spark of recognition crossing her features.

Taeyong disregards her with a polite smile in favor of addressing Johnny again – this time properly. “ _Hyung_.”

A lazy smile tugs at the corners of Johnny’s mouth, before he draws his head back to take a better look at Taeyong. Apart from that, he stays listless, slack sway of his palm signaling the girl to keep going.

The coarse drawl of his voice throws Taeyong off for a second. “Taeyong-ssi. Didn’t expect you here.”

“My mistake.” Taking a step to the side slowly, Taeyong inspects a slim glass vessel, placed atop the surface of the fireplace, three fragrance sticks peeking out where it unfurls in an oval shape. He picks at one, before deciding to leave it be, the smell of vanilla already burning in his nose as it is. “Should’ve given you a heads up.”

Johnny’s eyes follow his every step, seemingly reluctant to avert them even as Taeyong leisurely makes his way over to the open doorway leading onto the tiled patio on the other end of the room.

“It was kinda spontaneous, though.” He continues, fingers sliding across the silky white curtains drawn back and fixed in place with a neat golden clip curling around the fabric. “Do you have a minute?”

Johnny’s response comes instantly. “For you, always.”

When Taeyong turns back around, the masseuse is pressing her fingers into the space between Johnny’s shoulder blades nimbly.

There’s a curl in his brows, expression anticipating enough for Taeyong to paint it as a challenge.

Jaw clenching around nothing, Taeyong sets a step forward. “In private.”

Johnny lets out a sigh at that. “Ah, it’s just Mingsu. You can–“

“ _Johnny_.”

As little as the sway of Johnny’s palm seems sufficient to usher the girl out of the room, stumbling over her own feet as she does so.

Heaving himself into a sitting position, Johnny reaches out, thin layer of oil glistening on the expanse of his back.

Taeyong averts his eyes when the towel slides down the curve of his hips, fingers curling around a small square remote on the table next to him, switching the music off completely.

“As ill-tempered as I’ve come to love you.” He mutters offhandedly, disdain apparent in the tone of his voice though lacking real temper.

Taeyong doesn’t bother coming up with a retort, silence stretching on for the time it takes Johnny to wipe the excessive oil off his back, slight curl in his brows as though it irritates him.

Once he seems satisfied, towel dropping to the floor with a soft thud, he looks back to Taeyong.

“ _So_.” A smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth, one hand darting up to comb through his tousled hair. “What gives me the pleasure of Lee Taeyong _himself_ paying me a visit? What crime did I commit?”

“I haven’t heard from you in days.“ Taeyong states, a little irritated at his nonchalance – his feigned cluelessness. “Figured I’d check on you.”

Johnny’s expression doesn’t waver. “How transparent. Trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Fair enough.” With an airy laugh, Johnny proposes, “How about this; I’ve got a very dry, very old _Le Pin_ cooled down in the basement waiting to be opened.”

It’s an offer Taeyong can’t refuse. Johnny knows him too well.

 

﹊

 

Deep red liquid splashes angrily against the inside of the rounded glass at every sway of Taeyong’s wrist.

It catches against a shaft of light leaking in through gaps between the curtains, turning an almost translucent red in its wake.

Some things, Taeyong has long learned, cannot be changed.

No matter how pesky. No matter how vast the trouble or bitter the aftertaste.

No matter how many times it’s brought up, whether sitting around a big mahogany table, dozen faces staring back at him wearing the expression of vanity like a mask, or at the edge of his bed when it’s still pitch black out and the voice buzzing through the other end of the line is too loud for his drowsy brain, speaking too fast for him to catch up.

Occasionally it’s something as simple as the smell of smoke lodged so deeply in every fiber, every corner and every gouge of Johnny’s loft; setting a foot across the doorstep is enough to spiral Taeyong’s brain into a deep-rooted migraine.

It’s a pesky little habit, one he had picked up a little over a decade ago and been stuck with ever since. It’s a little like the way Ten lights himself a cigarette when he’s stressed except that Johnny tends to do it whenever his hands aren’t occupied.

A hand settles on Taeyong’s shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts, right as more liquid hits the surface of the red ocean already throwing tides inside his wine glass.

Taking a sip from it, he watches Johnny discard a few scattered pieces of clothing thrown across his armchair, freshly switches into a loose tee which he had messily tugged into dark slacks, before settling into it.

“You sure your place isn’t bugged?” Taeyong asks, scanning the mess that is Johnny’s flat warily.

Johnny gives his glass an experimental swirl from where it sits against his palm. He doesn’t bother looking up to say, “You worry too much.”

“Feel like it’s an eligible question considering–“

“Geez, it’s not.” Johnny assures, smiles tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m not a total idiot.”

A moment passes in which he seems to make up his mind, leaning forward in his seat to switch his glass of wine for the pack of cigarettes resting on the tabletop.

Pinching one between his fingers, he lights it, smoke swirling around his face when he brings it to his mouth. The armchair creaks beneath his weight when Johnny leans back against it, one foot coming up to cross over the other.

He seems to remember his manners, offering one to Taeyong who politely refuses, taking another sip from his glass to gesture he’s contented.

It’s painfully trivial, a way too common occurrence, one might say – that _one_ being Ten.

It’s just that sometimes Taeyong can’t stand starring at blank walls and squeakily shiny tabletops anymore, sometimes he can’t physically take the smell of expensive leather and old books sometimes, just sometimes, he craves the shambolic type of nostalgia Johnny’s worn down loft holds.

A little like a home Taeyong can never return to.

It reminds him of last week, same setting, different wine.

But last week was last week and this week feels more like the beginning of… something.

The beginning of the end if they don’t watch their step.

“I’ve been in contact with some old business friends the past few days.” Johnny states blankly just as the silence was starting to get suffocation – he had never been much of a fan of the quiet, not in the way Taeyong is at least – taking his eyes off the burning tip of his cigarette long enough to see if Taeyong is paying attention. “To be straight forward, we’re gonna lose face over this. We already have.”

Taeyong gives the words a moment to fully hit. It’s not that he didn’t expect that, has been racking his brain with calculations ever since, but hearing it from Johnny is definitely a first.

He never seemed too keen on dragging personal business into issues that revolve around their circle. Not even at what happened last time.

Taeyong rubs a hand down his jaw, stubble rough against his fingertips. “How bad is it?”

Johnny heaves a sigh before bringing the cigarette to his lips again. It’s silent. He doesn’t seem too keen on breaking it, taking his sweet time to answer as though assessing where to start, what to say.

“Fact is,” Is what he settles on, leaning forward to stub the cigarette out. It’s only partway burned off, a few good drags still in it, but Johnny doesn’t seem to mind, instead picking the pack up again. He messes with the cover, pushing it open and letting it fall close a few times as though unsure if he should take another one before ultimately letting it drop down again. “We sent our best Chinese men over just to seal the deal, hours of work, millions of won. We not only lost money but we lost important business partners, our reputation suffered. Biggest opium deal in our history – scattered to the four winds.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t have an answer.” Johnny states, simply. “It’s not a black and white issues and it’s not something you can calculate and make look pretty with statistics. Not with something like this and not when your own men are involved.”

Taeyong takes another sip from his glass in lieu of a reply.

He knows Johnny is right. He isn’t vastly knowledgeable in this department for nothing and he must’ve consulted Doyoung by now.

So what he does instead is change topic. “I’ve been thinking,”                                    

“That’s dangerous.” Johnny retorts, arching a brow.

“The most obvious answer is Yuta.”

Taeyong doesn’t bother beating around the bush and his bluntness obviously catches Johnny off guard if the way his lips part slightly is anything to go by.

It’s no secret that Johnny is fond of him, close to him, even.

But it’s Taeyong who knows Johnny like no one else does, knows how credulous he is, so easy to win over with a cold beer and an open mind.

He doesn’t need to bring it up, they all know, but he feels the need to reason his conclusion anyway, “He’s deceived his family once. He’d do it again.”

“We’ve been over this so many times.” Johnny say rubbing a hand through his hair, frustration apparent in the tone of his voice. “It was different, he wasn’t in the inner circle yet. He wasn’t anywhere yet.”

Taeyong knows, of course he does. He was the idiot that took him in, after all.

Such a fresh, futile wound.

He remembers the hardship he had to face when Yuta was in dire need of shelter, when Sicheng came to him personally, tear stained face and asking him for a favor.

_Just a simple favor._

And he declined.

Reckless he might be but he doesn’t quite feel comfortable ringing with death and coming out atop just yet. Not over petty matters anyway.

But of course, Sicheng gambles with a support system a simple soldier shouldn’t have, and yet he does. Taeil has a way with making appealing proposals – Taeyong would hope so, it’s his job after all – one and then another one.

Until finally the one Taeyong couldn’t decline, would be a fool to do so.

 _“What should I testify as? I’m still a criminal.”_ Yuta had said sincere and beaten half-conscious one night.

There’s nothing but a patch of burnt skin now, where the Yakuza symbol once graced his skin, an ugly line all the way from his chest down to his navel.

_An eternal reminder._

Taeyong leans back against the sofa, crossing his legs. “Maybe it was a ploy altogether.”

“I highly doubt that.” Johnny assures yet again, reaching out to pick up his wine glass though not taking a sip from it. Instead he slides the pad of his index finger across the rounded edge. “But I’ll keep an eye on him.”

It sounds yielding – not to Taeyong’s demand but to the sole reality of it all. Having to look into each and every man in your _own_ rows.

It’s like looking for the needle in the haystack. Except that there’s a ticking time bomb attached to it and you never know what exactly – what movement, what word, what wrong _glance_ – is going to set it off.

Taeyong downs the rest of the wine, setting the glass down, before he turns to look at Johnny.

“Who else is there?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now that we’ve proceeded further into the plot of the story, I wanna ask you guys who you suspect as the rat? I’m really curious and would love to know your thoughts and reasons!!
> 
> Again, thank you all so much! The next update is already in the making.
> 
> Also please don't hesitate to talk to me on either [twitter](https://twitter.com/plumjsung) or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/plumjsung)


	5. Chapter four

“You’re going out?“

Yuta leans forward, fingers brushing against Sicheng’s as he curls his index around the handle of the cup, taking it from him. Settling back against the Adirondack chair, he brings it up to his face, inhaling the smell of herbs, that are drowning inside scalding water for a brief second.

With an affirmative hum, Sicheng leans back against the railing of their balcony, brittle wood creaking under his weight.

He wouldn’t be surprised if it gave in any second, making way for him to free fall off the seventh floor, his spine cracking open against the asphalt of the hectic road below him.

It’s a minuscule piece of the bigger picture that paints the worn down state of their apartment, which frankly, is more of a shithole than a place to live in (Sicheng likes to refer to it as number seven, to which Yuta patiently corrects home, each and every time). From the worn beige paint chipping around light switches and baseboards, to the semi functioning kitchen appliances and finally the fist shaped hole right next to the bedroom door. It marks their third move in the span of just four months.

_“Trying to set a record?”_ Johnny had joked when he pressed the key into Sicheng’s open palm barely three weeks ago. A hostile part inside of him hopes that, this time, they won’t hit the one month mark. The foresight of thirty days here as opposed to anywhere else, (may it be six feet under), makes Sicheng’s skin itch, his finger twitching for the rippled grip of a glock.

Even when he knows it’s unfair to rob Yuta of a place to call home, something he’s been searching for almost all his life.

In a way, it’s ironic that the people who promised him riches are putting him into places like this, although Sicheng is adamant that this is nothing more than an interim solution.

They will be forced to part ways in due course anyway. They always do.

“It shouldn’t take long.” Sicheng says, offhandedly pulling at the bands of the gun holster to fix it more snuggly against his upper thigh for it to not slip out of place unexpectedly.

Yuta arches a brow, one hand darting up to reach out for him. “Shouldn’t, or won’t?”

He lets himself be pulled in reluctantly, unfazed when Yuta curls two fingers into the elastic of Sicheng’s face mask to slip it down and out of the way.

Yuta’s fiery red hair, reflects against the gleam of the setting sun. It matches the glint in his eyes when he leans in to press their lips together briefly, and then again, a radiant smile making a dimple appear next to the corner of his mouth when he pulls back.

He fixes Sicheng’s mask back into place, before curling up on the chair again. “You look hot.”

Sicheng brushes him off with a roll of his eyes, even when he knows Yuta can see the grin pulling at the corner of his eyes.

Reaching for the grip of the gun resting inside the holster against his thigh, he pulls it out to tuck it into the waistband of his jeans behind his back instead, before glancing back at Yuta.

“Don’t wait up for me.”

With that, he makes his way down the fire escape, already too far down to dignify Yuta with a response when he calls after him,

_“The fire escape, really? What’s wrong with our front door?”_

 

﹊

 

It’s windy today.

A light breeze that sets oak leaves, withering under the sizzling summer sun by day, into jumbled motion.

Sicheng can feel a trickle of sweat roll down the back of his neck, as a result of the muggy midnight air leaking in through the open window. Tightening his fingers around the rear grip of his rifle, he fights the itch to reach back to wipe it away. It ultimately catches against the tightened collar of his tactical vest, dissolving against the material.

It’s windy and Sicheng has definitely underestimated the range.

Let alone the fact that he’s dealing with the most wired  fifty-something-year-old he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

_seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three_ … a silhouette scurries into his field of vision, but dark satin fabric blacks his view for a split second before it’s gone again.

Flexing his fingers from the strain of being curled around the trigger for too long, Sicheng lets out a sigh.

It isn’t usually in his nature to get frustrated, sangfroid learned and mastered at a young age. Unwavering control over every limb, every muscle, every nerve in his body, driven into him to him to the point of perfection throughout his years in military training.

The problem isn’t that he’s been cowering on the floor of pitch black hostel room for the past three hours, it’s that he’s been deceived with the elusive pretense of _minimum effort, maximum outcome_.

_Quick, easy, clean_ Kun had pointedly told him, just this afternoon.

Yet Sicheng has taken out high security business men faster than this.

It’s unfair and he knows it. Kun isn’t at fault for the orders he merely passes down to him. So maybe he should curse out Taeyong or Johnny or the whole system, for they should _know_ that Sicheng has never scored a good outcome when it came to a third party choosing his hideout. A third party who has never even laid their hands upon a rifle, that doesn’t know what factors play into it, or how to even adjust the parallax for a clean shot.

It comes down to this. Sicheng can’t get a clear view of his target.

A _civilian_ – of all people – whose knowledge of guns probably doesn’t excel past a dusty handgun tucked away in the far corner of his bedside drawer. A fifty year old store owner who spends Friday nights in cheap hostels, wasting money on even cheaper prostitutes.

Sicheng feels worse for the way the guy wastes Sicheng’s own precious time than he does for the fact that his end is inevitably about to come crashing down on him.

_One-hundred-fifty-three, one-hundred-fifty-four, one-hundred-fifty-five_ … the back of a head, wispy gray hair, cut his lens for a moment but before Sicheng had the chance to adjust the scope for an ideal shot, it’s back to nothing but the mocking reflection of the stained crème coating the walls of the room.

Clenching his jaw, Sicheng uncurls his fingers from the heated steel of the machine gun. With a little more vigor than necessary, he rips his ear protection from his head, making it drop to the floor with a soft thud, before heaving himself to his feet.

The decision is made in a split second.

If Sicheng can’t take the target out from a safe distance, he has to do it up close.

A twinge of annoyance hits him when he pulls his semi-automatic from the holster, realizing that he was heedless enough to not calculate the possibility of this scenario.

It’s not a bad gun per se – of course it isn’t. A sleek and handy _Kahr CW45_ , one that had been his trusty companion for the span of a little over five years, responsible for more deaths than the riffle by his feet could ever even fathom.

It outlived even Yuta’s relentless persuasion. Ever the firearm expert he is, he can’t seem to help himself, not when there’s a new, as extravagant as it is equipped, gun passing through his hands every other day.

What was a _Springfield_ model just this Wednesday, was the new _Les Baer Custom_ the previous week.

But despite the way Sicheng sometimes longs for the weight of a pistol worth two to five to ten _million won_ , (opposed to his current, meek in comparison, five-hundred-thousand model), he prefers to stick with what he _knows_.

What kind of gunman would he be if he didn’t know every tick, ever unevenness curving the surface, and ever sound, good or bad, that constitutes to the effectiveness of his gun, by heart?

Yuta likes to call him pretentious because of that. Sicheng is never sure to what extent it’s actually meant as a harmless jab.

He knows he’s right nonetheless. It’s not exactly rocket science.

A gun is only as good, as capable and as deft as the hand that holds it.

Although in this case it’s a little more complicated, going beyond basic skills. There are more subtle options that are quieter and less _in your face_. He didn’t even bother to bring a suppressor. Not to mention that he looks like he spawned straight from a James Bond movie to the naked eye.

Slipping in through the backdoor, Sicheng decides to push those thoughts to the back of his mind. He has nothing to lose anyway.

Locating the right room is easy enough, not only for the obvious noise coming from it. After making sure that there’s not a single soul around to disrupt him, he gets to work. Faintly, as he slots the diamond pick into the mechanism of the lock, he wonders where exactly he went wrong for him to dirty his hands to this extent for a useless civilian.

The lock clicks open before he finds an answer to that.

Casting yet another glance to both sides for a final confirmation so that he won’t be interrupted, he rises to his feet, his gun leaving the holster as he does so.

His hands move on autopilot as they check the magazine, it’s a routine; a pull to the slide reveals the chamber before the magazine springs free with a click, once more for good measure’s sake than anything, with all seventeen rounds Sicheng manually filled just this morning heavy in his hand.

The door gives in under the pressure of his foot. Muzzle first, ready to fire at any given chance, Sicheng steps inside the room.

Primal instincts switching off, he stops thinking. The scene that plays out on the bed, inches of naked skin against pearly sheets, blurs around the edges. Tunnel vision kicks in, as his eyes close in on the target.

Stepping to the side for a better angle, one that doesn’t result in _two_ brains smeared against the already appalling shade of the wall, Sicheng unlatches the safety of his gun.

It’s enough to make the man stir against the sheets, gaze swerving past the woman’s shoulder, to stare up at him directly.

Sicheng’s mind supplies that only someone sensitive to the sound of a safety clicking – of all things – should be able to distinguish the delicacy of it in a mess of rustling sheets and breathy moans.

It only stays on his mind for so long, until the jolt of the momentum seethes back in.

Within a split second two things happen consecutively; Sicheng’s finger twitching against the trigger the instant it dawns on him that the face staring back at him is too blasé to be staring death straight in the face, way to unmoving for a simple civilian that slipped a cog to end up in this situation, for the miniscule reason of not giving up what technically isn’t his.

The second is a blur of motion, fingers curling into strands of auburn hair, a screech, not loud enough – _never loud enough_ – for Sicheng to miss the click of a safety.

 

 

﹊

 

The distant sound of a car, the buzz of the engine resonating off the brittle façade dully, echoes through the otherwise tranquil night. It’s out of place, in the way it approaches too timidly, in the way the familiar squeak of tires coming to an abrupt halt cuts in too abruptly.

A moment passes. Everything falls silent. The thump of a car door being slammed serving as the final blow after a stretch of quiet.

Jaemin tries to remember, ransacking the empty pits of his mind for the last number he was on, as the street light flickers back to life above him.

_eighty-seven_ , _no_ – _seventy-eight? No, no that can’t be–_

Something darts into Jaemin’s peripheral view, provoking him to tighten his grip around the handle of the knife – the _kitchen_ knife, he recalls soberly – poorly hidden in the front pocket of his hoodie. He clenches his teeth when his knuckles grace the bandages patched against his stomach at the movement.

The approaching footsteps, hitting the pavement with deliberate gradualness, feel more like a taunt. They approach too unhurriedly to be anything but.

Jaemin suddenly regrets not bringing a gun. He should’ve dabbled with the leeway that Renjun’s way of sleeping could’ve given him, a dead weight in the sheets even in the middle of a raid. It would’ve been a breeze for Jaemin to drag his semi-automatic from under his pillow without waking him.

Jeno, on the other hand, is more alert. Although Jaemin knows his blind spot lies in the way he tends to be lenient under the impression of concealment.

If he dies it’s completely on Mark though. That absolute genius who declared it necessary to confiscate Jaemin’s gun when he was nothing more than an unmoving scramble of limbs against sheets for three days straight. What harm could Jaemin do with a gun when he can barely walk a mile on his own? He still hasn’t come around to understand.

Maybe it’s _this_. And maybe Mark is even more of a dumbass than Jaemin likes to give him credit for.

The figure steps up under a streak of light, dimly reflecting off from the rusty streetlamp to the other side of the narrow alleyway. The taunting drag of leather soles against gravel faltering, before stopping completely.

Jaemin would be able to recognize that face anywhere, even after all those years. A few more wrinkles gracing the pale skin but the glint in his eyes is the same, the curl of his lips still as sharp as it was back then, burned into his memory.

_Of course, it would be him._

The last face he saw when he stumbled out of the battered trailer all those years ago. The first thing he sees when he gets reeled back in.

Sangchul, is his name. It’s hard to think about. Feels unreal to call him anything but _dad’s friend_ , back then at least. But now there’s nothing that rolls off his tongue with more difficulty.

“ _Jaeminie_ , my boy.” He says, tone dripping with feigned kindness. Embarrassingly enough, it makes Jaemin flinch, unsure if from the abruptness of it or the simple sound of his voice on its own, fingers flexing against the handle of the knife helplessly. “Look at you, you’ve grown up so well. Always knew you’d turn into a handsome young man.”

Jaemin tries to speak around the tightness of his throat, “What do you want?”

“No time for pleasantries?” A smile dances across his face, “Where did you learn your manners?”

It’s so patronizing, the sudden urge to punch Sangchul in the face washes over Jaemin. Instead, he pinches the skin at the back of his hand until it subsided enough for him to string together a coherent sentence.

“I didn’t come out here in the middle of the night, for you to waste my time.”

That seems to stir something within Sangchul, enough so to make his calm demeanor crumble, face twisting into something downright malicious. So quick and seamless, it makes Jaemin stumble a step back.

“Almost forgot about your bad temper.” He spits, every last trace of compassion drained from his voice. “That’s why you never would’ve made it.”

Jaemin lets a beat of silence pass – knowing he shouldn’t bother talking back when there’s no place to.

_He didn’t ask a question_.

It’s enough to prompt Sangchul to continue.

“You’re climbing high on the social ladder these days, we’ve heard. Earning money that doesn’t belong to you.”

“You want money? Typical.”

“Not quite.” Sangchul states, tilting his head to the side. “We want back what is ours.”

Jaemin dares to be bold. He knows he’s right. “Stop being cryptic, if you wanted me we wouldn’t be here right now.”

It elicits a low chuckle from Sangchul, conceit clouding his features, opposed to the expected wrath.

“Used goods don’t sell. No matter how pretty the face.” Taking a step closer, his hand darts up slowly – in a way, more like he’s trying to win the trust of a wild animal.  Jaemin pulls back before he has the chance to touch him. “We want a deal.”

“I don’t do deals with lower ranks.” Jaemin states, it doesn’t quite carry the confidence he was hoping for. He’s almost certain it’s impossible for Sangchul to miss the way his hands are shaking out of their skin, even hidden away in the pocket of his sweater. “If he wants something from me, he has to talk to me himself. I want him to look into my fucking eyes.”

“You want to be killed for real this time? Wasn’t that enough of a forewarning?”

Sangchul moved so suddenly, Jaemin didn’t even register what was happening until he felt a sharp pain pulsing through his abdomen. Stumbling back a few steps, he lets go of the handle of the knife to press his palm against the patches fixed atop his wound.

A wave of nausea washes over him – he tries to swallow it down.

“And he has a knife, too.” Sangchul exclaims, gleefully, arm reaching back to pull a gun from behind him. “Didn’t we say no weapons?”

“You wouldn’t kill me.” Jaemin says, staring straight into the muzzle of the gun. “You need something from me. Besides if you did people would notice. You’re what – seven? Ten, at top? I got a few more at my back. I might not matter to most of them but enough to cause a stir.”

“We should’ve killed you while we had the chance all those years ago.” Sangchul scoffs, aiming down to the middle of Jaemin’s chest, before letting his arm drop back to his side altogether, features softening. “Juvie made you grow a pair, hm?”

Jaemin levels him with a look. “Is that all? I don’t–”

Fingers twist around his underarm suddenly and with so much vigor, it makes him yelp, half in surprise and half in pain. It’s aggressive enough to make Jaemin almost trip over his own feet as he’s forced to stumble back a few steps. The familiar feeling of the cold metal of a gun pressing against the underside of his chin, tilting his head up.

With a violent twist to his arm, one that makes Jaemin feel as though his bones are about to snap in half, Sangchul loosens his grip to let his fingers roam down Jaemin’s back instead. It happens so fast, Jaemin can barely comprehend what is happening, before Sangchul has dragged something from the pocket of his jeans and retreated again.

He inspects it as though considering how much value it holds, turning it over in his hands a few times, the metallic cover of Jaemin’s phone catching against the glow of the streetlight each time. Jaemin can do nothing but watch dumbfounded, staying listless even when Sangchul slips _his_ phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

Subsequently he whips out a different one, holding it out for Jaemin, who takes it from his grip with shaky fingers once he realizes he’s _offering_ it up to him.

“We’ll call you.” Sangchul says.

This time, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise, Jaemin can see the movement before he feels its repercussion. A rough groan slipping past his lips as Sangchul’s fist meets his stomach.

Gravel cuts into his palms when he drops to the ground, and his knees ache as he sucks in gulps of air.

For a long dreadful moment, everything around Jaemin is nothing but a pitch black canvas speckled with white fuzz, vision clouded from the numbing pain.

Trying to breath turns into dry heaving, and Jaemin feels as though a flood of blood is about to come oozing from his mouth any second now.

He wants to curl in on himself but he’s unable to move. It hurts too much.

“ _Fucking bastard_.” Is the last thing Sangchul says to him, although Jaemin is sure that wasn’t the end of it. His ears were ringing too much to catch anything else.

The car starts back up, tires squeak against asphalt.

Jaemin doesn’t know how long he stays like this.

Only when the pain subsides enough for him to feel as though he can breathe again, does he find the strength to drag himself into a sitting position. The back of his head hits the façade with a loud thud. Every muscle in Jaemin’s body screams at him to just give up and wait for sunrise to come.

_Someone will find him eventually_.

Closing his eyes, he realizes there’s one flaw to his plan – his mind won’t stop running wild with every possible worst case scenarios that would come from him arriving back home, after everyone has already woken up.

The mental image of Mark pestering him with his endless inquisitive questions, Jeno watching his every step until the toilette is his sole haven, yet again, and Jisung’s eyes, heavy bags under them because of the nightly terror keeping up for the past five nights, staring up at him. It all crashes down on him.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Jaemin reaches for the phone where it landed against the asphalt when he lost his footing earlier.

He curses at his inability to get his fingers to stop shaking long enough to even turn it on.

He tries and tries, then tries again and again. Just for good measure, once more.

Jaemin is about to admit defeat, before it flashes white.

Assuming it’s a prepaid phone he either has very little or, worst case, no credit at all on this thing. He takes the _no guts, no glory_ approach.

There’s only one person he can think of calling right now. One person he trusts not to judge him for his errors. Someone that isn’t able to hold him accountable, even if they wanted to.

The line buzzes _one, two, three times_ before it cuts short, a static sound, then just when Jaemin awaits the voicemail to cut in, a disordered, _very human like,_ grunt.

When Jaemin tries to speak, it comes out rough and more pathetic than he intended.

He barely sounds like himself.

“I need your help, please.”

                                                                              

                                                                                                                                                                                                       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! I'm sorry this is late again, I had some difficulties :/
> 
> As always, thank you for all the support!! It really means so much to me and makes me so happy :-) <3
> 
> If you want to talk, I have [twitter](https://twitter.com/plumjsung) or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/plumjsung) :-)

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to talk, I have [twitter](https://twitter.com/plumjsung) or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/plumjsung) :-)


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